


As Long As It Takes

by Lord_Twinkle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scar Worship, Wings, sorry neil gaiman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Twinkle/pseuds/Lord_Twinkle
Summary: Aziraphale has never seen Crowley's wings. Little does he know, it's because Crowley has none. Not anymore.





	As Long As It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, Ineffable Husbands is still not out of my system.
> 
> So here we go again.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. English is not my first language, let me know if you spot mistakes.

Loving Crowley might seem like the most maddening endeavour he had ever taken up. It was a game of patience and time. He didn't mind it – after all, they had all the time in the world. But it was more than that: Aziraphale loved the unpredictability of his demon, he loved uncovering the little secrets that made him up, unfolding a softness buried under all that snark and dark elegance. He would never have suspected it when they had first met. He had only known what his people said about demons – that they were vile creatures, angels that had done the unforgivable and had been banished for it, that the warmth of heaven had been taken from their hearts but not from their minds, never again to be felt but never completely forgotten. They never talked about how much said creatures had suffered, the extent of the price they had paid.

 

Aziraphale never asked about the Fall. He trusted Crowley would tell him if he needed to. But there were the moments when Crowley would grow quiet and he would lose focus, as if he were far, far away. Reliving events lifetimes gone, but still oh so painful. And Aziraphale knew that if he had taken his glasses off in those moments, his eyes would reflect the horror, the agony, and the all consuming fear that lived in this entity he loved so dearly. He didn't though. In those moments, he would take the demons hands and talk to him calmly about nothing and everything, until the demon came to.

 

They had grown closer in the few months following the-apocalypse-that-wasn't. Closer than Aziraphale had ever dreamed they could be. They had stopped dancing around each other and finally spilled their guts to one another. They had shared their first kiss in St-James' Park, on that picnic he had promised. They had been the gossip of the ducks for weeks.

 

He had wanted to explore more of the physical dimensions their new proximity had allowed, but Crowley seemed reluctant. He thought maybe the demon didn't want to sully an angel's purity. Aziraphale assured him, this wouldn't be his first rodeo, so to speak. But Crowley remained reticent. Aziraphale was fine with waiting until his demon was ready: he had waited 6000 years, he could wait many, many more. He was perfectly satisfied with the hand holding and the lingering kisses they could exchange without the fear of Heaven and Hell finding them out. They could both go to He... well Somewhere, for all he cared.

 

But tonight, it was hard for him to resist running his hands all over Crowley. They'd had such a wonderful time - eating at the Ritz, the few bottles they had shared, the long walk arm-in-arm back to the bookstore. They had laughed so much, and Crowley looked so beautiful. Just so overwhelmingly _gorgeous_. As they entered the bookshop, it had been so easy for Aziraphale to close the space between them, to slip his hands under Crowley's shirt around his waist, and to pull him into a kiss.

 

“Angel? What are you doing?” Crowley gasped, sounding a little alarmed. He could feel his urge to recoil.

 

“Trying to kiss my gorgeous boyfriend,” he said, kissing the length of his jaw. “Is that alright?”

 

Hands found their way to Aziraphale's collar and the demon arched a perfect eyebrow over his glasses, but their closeness betrayed the hitch in his breath.

 

“I do love when you kiss me, Angel,” he said. “But the touching...”

 

This had happened before, every time Aziraphale had tried to put his hands anywhere near Crowley's back, the demon had shut down the interaction and practically ran away. The angel had gathered that it had something to do with his wings. After all, Crowley had never made them visible in his presence. He thought maybe he was ashamed of them and so hid them. The same way he hid his eyes behind tinted shades. If his wings were half as wonderful as his eyes, thought Aziraphale, there was nothing that warranted this reaction.

 

So, Aziraphale, and this had become more and more common, tempted the devil: he left his hands under his lovers shirt. Feeling bold, he left his fingers wander to his spine, tracing the curves of those delightfully narrow hips.

 

Crowley stiffened like a slab of concrete and gave him _the look_ _™_. There was a time when that look would have summoned an argument out of thin air or even have made Aziraphale fall silent. Now though, he just raised himself slightly on his toes to press a kiss on the demon's cheek.

 

“Why not darling?”

 

The demon opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it and lowered his face to gaze at his shoes.

 

“Crowley. I've known you for far too long now for you to think you can hide that something is bothering you. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. If it's because you don't want me that way, that's fine but I -”

 

This last remark seemed to take the demon by surprise.

 

“No, Angel, that's not it. That's not it at all. I - I do want you,” he admitted, but fell silent. He took a deep breath and settled himself. “It's just that... there are dreadful scars-”

 

He chocked on the words, unable to continue.

 

“Scars, love?” Aziraphale had spotted some things over the ages, some white lines peaking out of his collar and maybe discolourations here and there, but he had never thought much of it. “Well, owning the same body for 6000 years does take its toll, I suppose.”

 

Crowley gave him a sad smile, so unlike the full faced grin Aziraphale loved. The demon swallowed hard, he removed his sunglasses and his eyes told the story of bottomless things.

 

“No. No... This is different,” he whispered. “These are...”

 

He stopped himself, eyes wiring shut and pressing his forehead to the angel's. His partner could feel him shake under his hands. After a minute, the demon seemed to reach a decision. He swallowed hard.

 

“Aziraphale,” he never used his name. “I don't have wings. Not anymore. _They_ took them from me.”

 

They stood there, Crowley unable to meet Aziraphale's questioning eyes. Silence resonated through the bookstore for a long impossible moment. The angel had to force his heart to start beating again.

 

_What? Oh dear God._

 

There was no word for how horrible Aziraphale felt in this moment. _Guilt_ wouldn't cut it at all. He had mistakenly thought Crowley had a few scars and that he thought they looked ugly. That Crowley, being a demon, had given in to vanity. Make no mistake, Crowley was _beautiful_ and had a right to treasure this part of himself, but he placed a lot more importance on his appearance than Aziraphale thought was strictly necessary.

 

Now though, he was consumed by the understanding of the special kind of horror his partner had been living with. He hadn't just Fallen: Heaven had been forcibly removed from him. He boar the evidence of his demise no matter where he was, no matter what shape or form he took, no matter how much time passed.

 

Aziraphale had to stop thinking. Had to stop his mind from reaching places where Crowley was screaming, pinned to the floor under an archangel's boot, his wings being wrenched out of their sockets... He pulled the demon close, nuzzling his partner's face in the crook of his neck and placing one hand in his hair reassuringly. He felt the taller man ease ever so slightly, but there was also the small sound of his lover swallowing down fear. After all these years, Aziraphale knew it better than the sound of his own voice. His demon was so often afraid, even if he wouldn't admit it.

 

“You're alright, love...” he said softly, still holding him, showering him in small kisses. “I've got you.”

 

Crowley's hands grasped tightly at the angel's waistcoat.

 

“I can't let you see me like that. If I let you see me... then you'll know I didn't just 'saunter vaguely downwards'. I fell **hard** , Angel.”

 

Aziraphale pulled back. There was panic, loss, rejection on his lover's features. The angel cupped his face as delicately as he could.

 

“Oh darling... My love. I've seen you in all kinds of states: slithering your way through Eden, drunk out of your wits, and most terrifying of all, when you've just woken up before coffee. Do you really think a few scars will scare me away now?”

 

Crowley gave the tiniest of smiles, but a genuine one. Aziraphale took this as a good sign and let his hands slide down to the demon's torso.

 

“I'd like to see you.”

 

“Why?” Crowley said with more venom than he intended, ever so suspicious.

 

“Because I am the most curious angel in all Creation and this is dearly coveted information. You would think after 6000 years, I would have managed to get a peak at this corporeal form of yours, but you're very good at keeping your clothes on for a demon,” another small smile, a bit wider than the last one. This was going better than he'd expected, given the circumstance. He decided to tell the demon what he would never dare otherwise: “Because you looked gorgeous tonight. All I can think of is how I'd like to worship every inch of your skin. If you would allow it, of course.”

 

Crowley snorted. He clearly did not believe him, but he entertained the thought for a few seconds.

 

“I thought I was supposed to be the one doing the tempting,” he searched his angel's eyes for something. Finally, he resolved: “Alright then, have it your way.”

 

He took his jacket off. It was uncoordinated, his dread brimming at the seams. Aziraphale slowly started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, pressing kisses on his collarbones in a way he hoped was reassuring. When he was done, he slipped the silky fabric off the demons gaunt shoulders. Shirt still in hand, he circled the demon to assess the situation himself.

 

His breath caught in his throat. He felt as if he might be sick, wondered if his form was even capable of that.

 

 _How could they... How could they do this?_ Heaven was supposed to be the good place. How could they have done such a cruel thing to Crowley. To _his_ Crowley. He felt the tangibility of his body more than he ever had, anger flaring up deep in his stomach. He gritted his teeth until they started wincing under the pressure, fighting against the urge to scream. Aziraphale was not a violent being, but in this instant, he wished he could find whomever had done this and show them what the righteous rage of an angel looked like. But, he would be damned if he showed any of this to Crowley. Not now. Not on top of every other emotion he must have been dealing with at the moment.

 

Unfortunately, something must have alerted the demon, because he had gone as still as a cornered animal. This is what happens when you spend so much time with the same person: they know all of your behaviours by heart. Even if they're not facing you.

 

The wounds where his wings used to be had been very deep. They were long, jagged, awful things, and must have taken so long to heal. But it wasn't only the wings. There were a maze of burn marks all over his back as well as part of his torso and his arms. _Flaming swords_ Aziraphale thought, sadly. There were also long pink and white scars like lightening strikes on his skin, faded, almost imperceptible, almost. But they were _everywhere_. Aziraphale could only think about the amount of blood there must have been. So, so much blood.

 

“Angel?” Crowley asked in a voice that betrayed centuries of building anxiety. And Aziraphale wanted to answer. Desperately so. But he just couldn't find his voice.

 

“Aziraphale?”

 

He couldn't move. Couldn't look away.

 

He finally came to when Crowley turned abruptly, muttering curses under his breath. He snatched his shirt from Aziraphale's hand, pulling it on before the angel could react. He grabbed his discarded jacket, not even bothering to slip it on.

 

“Crowley -”

 

“No. _No,_ ” Crowley cut. “I knew this would happen. I'm done here. I'm leaving”

 

He was failing miserably at buttoning his shirt closed, trying desperately to hide the map of white lines on his torso. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he took long strides towards the door. When he got to it though, it would not budge. Crowley gave a long hiss on the edge of a snarl: “Open the door Angel! _Let me out,_ ” he gave it a kick and threw his hands against it, banging. It wasn't long though before he slumped agains it, his face pressed on the cool glass. He sounded so tired in this instant – millennia of fears confirmed catching up. “Please, let me out...”

 

“No” came the very quiet answer.

 

Crowley fell to his knees, his hand latched onto the doorknob, absolute defeat written all over him – his expression completely blank. Aziraphale quietly moved to kneel beside him. He wrapped his arms around his partner and pressed his face in his hair, letting himself take in his smell, trying to equalize his breath, until the demon started to relax. When the tiniest sob racked his body, he tilted his chin up to meet his gaze. High, as it should be.

 

“Crowley. I love you... and for what it's worth, I'm sorry. This was not your fault.”

 

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley cry before. But at this moment, it was like something broke in him. Slow tears started painting their way down the demon's face. Unable to keep the eye contact, he buried his face in the angels coat. Aziraphale picked up the mess that was Crowley and moved them to the couch, where he let the demon sob to his heart's content.

 

“I'm sorry... I'm so sorry,” he kept repeating between skittering breathes.

 

“Oh my sweet Crowley... light of my life,” he soothed, cradling him. “You have nothing to apologize for. Don't you know you are perfect in every possible way? I love you, do you hear me? You are so loved.”

 

“You know what the worst part is?” he continued when he'd regained a bit of control. “I've wanted you to touch me for _such_ a long time. But I was so scared...”

 

Aziraphale looked down to Crowley's torso, his shirt still open. He decided to give it one last try and leaned in to run his lips lightly along the length of the angry burn above his heart.

 

Crowley gasped. The angel felt a shiver run through him, but the demon did not push away. So, Aziraphale kept going. He brought the demon down with him to lay on the sofa, facing each other, and let his hands roam over the roads carved in his lover. Truth was, you could barely feel anything at all: his skin was warm, maybe a little unnaturally so, smelling of lemongrass and underneath it all something more primordial, like electricity before a storm. But it was Crowley. Just Crowley.

 

Aziraphale pressed on, exploring his waist, his hips, and finally following the length of his spine. Aziraphale was curious by nature and this was a frontier he had thought he would never get to see. He would cherish the knowledge of Crowley's arches, valleys and cliffs as if they were the work of God Herself. And indeed they were. The best work She had ever done, in Aziraphale's humble opinion.

 

Crowley was breathing hard now, his eyes screwed shut, hands grasping at the angel's shirt, trying to find comfort where he could. The angel couldn't help but let a small smile spread on his face. He extricated himself from Crowley's grip and moved so he was now pressed against his back, kissing his neck and shoulders. He slowly removed his shirt for the second time tonight, giving him plenty of leeway to stop him, if he so wished. He nuzzled the warm skin between his shoulder blades. He kissed the edge of a jagged scar and delicately ran his tongue along it. Crowley gave a full body shiver against him.

 

“Angel...” he breathed, voice full of uncertainty and want. Aziraphale kissed the base of the wings that were no more, answering the question that Crowley couldn't put together.

 

Crowley grew still and hot and trembling under his hands. Aziraphale let them move along the roads that made up his partner. Letting them take in the feeling of each individual scar: the smoothness of the white lines, the roughness of the burn marks, and all the bitterness that had been poured into the two protruding gaps on his back. He decided he would love them all. Love them, despite the horror they represented, despite what Crowley might think of them. Because they _were_ Crowley. And he loved the demon. It was as simple as that.

 

“I'm going to do this for as long as it takes,” he whispered against his ear. “I'm going to explore every atom of you, my darling. With my hands, my tongue, my mouth. I'm going to do this until I know every single etch in you by heart.”

 

The scars spoke of a past both of them would rather have ignored. Aziraphale would be lying if he said they didn't still pull a shiver out of him, drag his imagination into darker places then he thought he was capable of. But he would look at them, carve their memory into his own hands, until he wouldn't be able to see them anymore. If time can be melancholic in some ways, especially for immortals, it can also ease the things we cannot change: he would get used to them, learn to see them only as parts of the absolute mess of shivering demon that now lay in his arms. He would make every inch _his_.

 

For now though, his efforts had let a shaky smile slither its way to Crowley's lips.

 

“That might take a long time,” said the demon. “One might even say, an eternity.”

 

Crowley gave a soft pant and dug his fingers into Aziraphale's thighs as the angel moved his hands languorously down Crowley's stomach and slid them under the hem of his skinny jeans, letting them explore the line of red hair that peaked out of it.

 

He was a fast learner, but he would take his time with this, do it properly. And one day, he wouldn't look at them anymore. Especially when there was something like Crowley's smile to look at.

 

“Like I said: as long as it takes.”

 


End file.
